


and in health

by shslduelist (joeri)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Lowercase, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 15:05:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18593728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joeri/pseuds/shslduelist
Summary: ryoken’s got a cold. yusaku’s gonna heal him… if ryoken would allow him.





	and in health

**Author's Note:**

> ive been in bed sick for 2 days so guess what i wrote to cheer myself up lol
> 
> fun fact: writing in lowercase is easier sometimes when writing drabbles or when stuck with writers block. dunno why! and sometimes lowercase writing has a self-contained, quiet feeling to it, so i keep it when posting certain things.

ryoken’s heart thuds fast. the back of yusaku’s wrist meets his forehead, warm, warmer than need be: the hazardous kind.

“get off of me,” ryoken tries to say around the thermometer in his mouth: the lack of a disposable sleeve proof enough of their continued domesticity, but yusaku won’t have it. he’s shoving both of ryoken’s (much wider, strong, _firm_ ) shoulders down against the mattress until his hair haloes against the pillows like magic.

“you’re sick,” he says, “and i’m _going_ to get you some meds and bring some more tissues in here.”

mulish in all manner but species, ryoken squints his eyes up at yusaku and scowls beneath the blankets of his bed, thermometer jutting out impudently like an unruly cigar or some kind of sickly facial hangnail. it beeps. yusaku plucks it out to read 101°f / 38°c.

oh yeah, ryoken is _not_ getting out of bed.

“wait right here while i get you some soup.”

“no, y- _yusaku—_ ”

but yusaku’s already out of the room, armoring himself with a box of kleenex, a wet rag folded into something of a rectangle, a bottle of water, a bowl of soup, and a jangling handful of pills he soon empties bedside after a few trips or so. ryoken stares on in anguish.

fitting all of these onto the table is a stretch, but he scoots a couple of things to the side: mainly a photo of ryoken’s dad, his phone charger, and a piplup plushie yusaku bought for him some years ago. something clatters to the floor. ryoken seems to shiver, bounce in agony at the sound (or just before it, sensing or _seeing_ that something was about to fall moments before it did) whereas yusaku merely motions with a jostle of his fingers that he’s got pills-in-hand for ryoken to swallow.

ryoken bats at yusaku’s hand feebly.

“i don’t want your prescription medications.”

“take the pills, ryoken.”

“i don’t _want_ them—”

“please, angel?” yusaku asks, the furrow in his brow gentle enough to melt ryoken’s heart, usually. he’s weakened by stress and fever and snot. ryoken crumbles, scowling and lifting the comforter above his head, leaving yusaku to parrot, “please?”

ryoken sniffs. the sound of clogged sinuses precedes a long, drawn-out, “fine,” followed by a, “but on one condition.”

“you aren’t in the position to be making demands,” says yusaku plainly, defiantly, ogling the two little bunny-like wefts of hair that are visible from above the comforter, “but i’m listening.”

tugging the blanket down to his cheekbones, ryoken glares faintly—sickness making something agreeable out of him.

“boil some tea and add umeboshi to it, then bring it back to me and bring a pad and pen.”

taking in the information, yusaku nods slow and puts the pills on the table. he leaves to do as he’s told.

umeboshi are pickled plums. they have some in the house for adding to rice and other meals, but yusaku’s personally never added them to… tea. he supposes there’s a first time for everything. he adds three to the tea, stirring and wondering if it’s supposed to have any kind of healing effects. yusaku thinks that maybe ryoken is better at all of this. he had so many years to take care of his father, he must be good at this.

yusaku frowns at the thought. ryoken was forced to take care of someone so much older when he was so young, and shouldn’t have had to. it shouldn’t be surprising that he knows home remedies, if he does, and it shouldn’t be gentle to think about, but yusaku can’t help but be endeared of everything he does.

slipping back inside the room, yusaku spots ryoken lying face up with his eyes shut as though he’s some kind of sleeping beauty, and yusaku can’t bear to wake him. the pills are gone, probably taken as per their agreement. the soup has barely been touched but the water is down to half. the rag sits across his forehead. his hair clings to his face from the rag, from the sweat. his skin is peachy and clammy. against his clavicle sits love bites, tender little markings from days ago before he’d gotten sickly.

ryoken peers up at him and yusaku realizes that he’s staring, caught in the springtime glow of his lover, even so far under the weather.

“did you do what i asked you to do?”

“yeah,” yusaku says, kneeling bedside and handing ryoken his tea.

“no, you didn’t,” ryoken says with no agitation. “you didn’t bring a pad and pen.”

“oh.”

upon taking a sip, ryoken jostles his upper body, his shivering bones doing somewhat of a dance in his skin.

“it’s okay, you’ve got a good memory.”

handing off the tea mug to yusaku, ryoken returns back down, adjusting the rag on his forehead and closing his eyes.

“we’ve already got soy sauce and ginger. head to the store and purchase lotus root and arrowroot. mix them with hot water and turn to a broth and wake me up when you’re done.”

yusaku’s eyes float around as the cogs in his head turn. that doesn’t seem too hard to remember. yusaku nods and ogles the bedside table, unable to find a place for the mug to go without shoving more things off of it. nudging the piplup plushie beside ryoken’s neck (slotted just between his shoulder and jaw), yusaku sets the tea mug down and nods.

“are these… home remedies you know of?”

“the tea makes you sweat,” ryoken says, bundling further beneath the blankets, a fondness creeping into his tone as he adjusts the plush. “it helps to sweat the fever out. the broth is… something my father once gave me, yes.”

nodding some, yusaku leans down to peck ryoken’s cheek, feeling the feverish warmth bleed into his lips, seeing the way he flinches up and vaguely tilts his head out of yusaku’s kiss.

“don’t get yourself sick.”

a small noise, something of an amused sound falls out of yusaku, and he wants to say something to the affect of, _but maybe i want to get sick so you can take care of me._ he doesn’t say that though, because for whatever humor he derives from it, yusaku finds a greater joy in not wanting ryoken to ever have to do that again.

no matter how gentle it might seem.

“i’ll try my best not to,” murmurs yusaku, reaching down to clasp ryoken’s hand in his own and squeeze it tight.

and always, no matter what the circumstance, ryoken always squeezes back.


End file.
